The Call

 There is moonlight

on corn stubble

by the side

of a highway.

The moonlight

is a Gypsy

a profligate

reflected child

and yet it kisses

the corn stubble, denied all wandering

except into death

where it has already gone

by the side of the highway

which only runs

east or west

north or south

this way or that,

never varying,

like an office worker who has been there

for far too long.

My bones are a tarmac

that I have traveled on from earliest memory

to this very moment.

I am an old barn, gone gray.

No one touches me

and I touch no one

except with these poems.

I write them

to keep from screaming.

I wonder,

where does this road end?

Am I a cornhusk doll

in the hands of time,

or am I moonlight--

a messenger from a mother a million miles away?

I have been a child,

a partner,

a parent,

a friend,

a cautionary tale

and rain in the desert. 

Now I am tired

though I still love leaves

dogs,

sunrise,

books,

poetry.

If I lay down in the moonlight

between the old rows

near where the semi trucks rumble 

going here

or there

could I rise

into firmament?

Is all of this some kind of holy circle

or would I just turn to dust

inside my flannel and wool?

I will ask the corn.

I will ask the traffic.

I will ask the moonlight.

I will ask the night

that has wrapped me from cradle to grave

and if it answers

I may get up in the morning

and call you--

yes, it's me

and I am as surprised as you are. 

________

River Song

 Here is the river--

the river full of stones.

The mourning dove and the dawn

come to hear the river rush

over the many stones.

The hem of my skirt is wet

as I cross the icy river--

the river filled with stones.

I have come to cross in the quiet dawn

across the passing years and the rushing river.

I am a mother who was never mothered--

a river rushing over the many stones.

My child and the mourning dove of dawn

come to watch me crossing

the cold waters of the rushing river.

Here is the river, clear and cold

like the breath I borrow from every dawn.

I am a mother who was never mothered.

The icy river flows and is filled with stones--

I step carefully, feet numb, heart rushing like the river.

Green House, Black Trim

 My house is lime green

with black trim

like a garden

for grave diggers.

Surrounding it on rainy afternoons

are rings of brilliant jade leaves

on shiny black trunks

swaying like boxers.

One of the spindles

has come out from the porch rail.

It holds steady, but

I don't trust it like I used to

when the noisy morning starlings

and the raucous ones in evening

sounded and numbered

the same. 

Mean Dog

 She's gotten loose again.

I'm talking about the mean dog I keep

behind the rickety fence

of my better sense. 

She's all mouth and teeth, 

dumb as a box of rocks.

Careful walking down my street--

first you're someone, then just meat.

Down in the viney valley, fragrant and wild,

came a mist-born baby, a minstrel child.

Down the bramble run, in the muddy black

that sweet babe wandered and never came back.

Down the alley, off toward the stacks

my mean dog rambles to hell and gone.

She lives on my tongue, not cute, not young

and I'm sick and sorry, whatever she's done.

Dying Man in a Yellow Suit

 

October, you are a dying man

wearing a yellow suit

voguing down the boulevard

pretending that cane is just a prop.

Step inside the boulangerie.

Sugar melts, cakes grow stale,

but being in the case is like being on stage--

it's "let's pretend" in the sweetest way.

Summer hasn't been kind to us.

There is chewing gum on our soles,

our skin is a disaster, our regrets numberless,

yet we reflect in store windows as clearly as royals.

October, offer me your arm and no one will know

that you are not just being gallant.

With each step, another day ticks away

and when you lie down with me it will be as a near-ghost.

No matter, don't give it another thought.

I am here, once almost-pretty,

my spirit a genuine drop dead knock-out babe

and all yours until November arrives

in its ferryboat, and if you brought no coin

I've got you, allow me, you with the kindly moon in your eyes.

______

for my dear friend Dora at Dverse Poetics: Tripping the October Light Fantastic

In the Rhambangle (new version)

 In the Rhambangle, the climbing vines

looped themselves up and through the latticework
like emotions falling from a dream.

You loved the hour-bound birds who made their nests
in the high corners; feathered keepers
without ceremony, counters of our soft seconds and all the rest.

I liked your boots, especially tucked beneath a wicker chair
in the moonlight, lost to your feet
but called a curious thing by the avante garde among the moths of local wing.

I haven't said it well, I realize. My irises kept the words
after I first saw them in morning light.
It's a fool's errand, so they say, making these sounds no string nor key would own,

but I keep trying, because I love you down to the detail, the divinity, the dissonance, and the bone.

____

original version HERE. It was written for a prompt demanding made-up words. Here I have replaced them all except for the title word. 

Four Leaf Clover

 Four leaf clover, talk to me

Tell me how my luck will be.

In the rain 

I'm the girl

with a flower garland in her hair

I'm the ball 

that someone left

dangerously on the stair.

 Four leaf clover, talk to me

Tell me how my luck will be.

In the fall 

I'm the girl

with a jack-o-lantern for a face

I'm the book 

on the bed

but I never think to mark my place.

 Four leaf clover, talk to me

Tell me how my luck will be.

In the night 

I'm the girl

with a yellow candle burning bright.

I'm the stray 

in the road

watching all the passing pretty lights

 Four leaf clover, talk to me

Tell me how my luck will be.

_____